Disclaimer: I don't own Spring Awakening


Melchior stood alone above Moritz's grave. He still could not believe that his dear friend was now underneath that stone that wrote his name, his birth date and the day he closed his eyes for good. He shed a few tears remembering how Moritz used to be a clumsy, but joyful child. If only he could hold that Moritz into his arms again.

'Melchi! Help!'

'Relax, Moritz. It's just a butterfly! No need to be scared.'

'B-but… look at its wings! They are so big and blue—'

'Melchi! Do you want to come over my house? Mama has made Streuselkuchen and Gugelhupf! We can play robbers in the yard and then visit the tree house!'

'Melchi, why am I haunted by the legs of a woman?'

All those memories Melchior had shared with Moritz were so fresh, so clear he could hardly believe that Moritz was no longer alive. Melchior felt a sharp pain in his heart. The pain might have not been physical, but it hurt so much worse. 'Why, why, why…' was the only thing he kept asking himself. Why did Moritz sacrifice all his potential for a moment of weakness?

Why didn't he come to him for help?

It wasn't like Moritz was the kind of person who would not ask for help because he considered himself too dignified or proud. He was actually quite depended on others sometimes. Usually over things that held much importance to him; and his desperation which was caused by the outcome of his exams was not something trivial, for sure.

"Why, Moritz? Wasn't I there for you?" Melchior asked quietly, not waiting for an answer.

"No, I wasn't" he responded to himself moments later, loathing every word he spoke. He could not deny, though, that what he said was true. "I was not by your side when you needed me the most. I was just an egoist lost within his own little world that refused to care about anyone else but himself…" 'And her.'

Melchior fell to his knees and let his tears stain the cold tomb of his friend. Moritz was buried under him and it was partially his fault.

The boy wiped the tears that were running down his face with his sleeves. Crying wouldn't bring Moritz back, but Melchior couldn't help but

It had been three days since Moritz's suicide and he still had not got over his shock and sadness that fact caused him. When he first heard the news that Moritz had shoot himself, he didn't believe it. He did not shed even one tear because he was fully convinced that Moritz could not do such a thing. Gradually, realization hit him and Melchior had to come with terms with reality. His best friend was dead.

Melchior slowly stood up, his eyes still fixed on the gravestone. He curled up his fist and turned around, making his way out of the graveyard.

As he reached the gates, he saw a figure with pale skin and dark hair. He instantly wondered if he was hallucinating because of his lack of sleep and staying too long in the cemetery. The figure approached him and he found out that it was in fact a girl wearing a short white dress and carrying a basket full of flowers. She stood in front of him, looking him in the eyes.

"You… ?" he said quietly, surprised by the fact that he met her in a place like that.

Even though he didn't mean to offend her, Wendla seemed to be taken aback by his tone and she lowered her head, her eyes now meeting the ground.

"What are you doing here?" asked Melchior in a softer voice, understanding that he probably made her feel uneasy.

Wendla raised her head again.

"Moritz used to be my friend too." she started "I brought him some chrysanthemums. He liked them a lot when he was younger…"

Melchior noticed the change in Wendla's expression after she mentioned Moritz. A nostalgic and saddened look appeared in her eyes.

Wendla walked past Melchior and reached Moritz's grave and Melchior followed her.

The girl lowered herself and placed the flowers next to the gravestone. Unable to contain her tears she threw herself between Melchior's arms and started weeping. The boy rubbed her back soothingly and caressed her hair. He lowered his head so that his cheek was pressed against the top of her head and waited until she stopped crying.

"Do… Do you feel guilty too?" asked Wendla between her sobs, breaking away from Melchior's embrace.

Melchior didn't expect her to say something like that and didn't respond immediately. Wendla, on the other hand, waited patiently for his answer.

"Yes…" he told her with a broken voice.

They both avoided each other's gaze and shifted the looks to the ground.

"Even though Moritz and I were friends when children, we didn't talk much when we grew up. I even made fun of him along with the others…" confessed Wendla. "… And I took you away from him in a moment like that."

"You are not the only one to blame for that, Wendla. It was my fault too. I could be with him but I was too preoccupied with myself. Even if we were not together at the hayloft that night, I would still be there, away from Moritz" Melchior told her.

Wendla felt warm inside by his words, but she couldn't bear seeing him a wreck. She placed her palm on his face and lifted his head so that his eyes were looking directly at hers.

"Please, Melchior, don't blame yourself for everything. There were many things that we could do to help him, but destiny had other plans" Wendla told the boy.

Melchior didn't say anything.

"You know, when my grandmother died, mama told me that when someone passes away, it's because God loves them and takes them with Him. Also, whenever God takes someone with Him, He gives life to someone else. And, true, a few weeks after oma died, Ina told us she was having a baby. Likewise, God took Moritz beside him because He loved him, while somewhere in the world a child is made out of love" said Wendla with a genuine smile.

Had it been someone else other than Wendla, Melchior would have told them that it's foolish to believe such stories about god and love, but he just couldn't talk like that to Wendla after she tried to ease him.

"Maybe you're right" he responded, forcing a smile on his lips.

Little did they know that the night Moritz died, a child was created within Wendla's womb because of their expression of love.